"Glory is a fickle bitch," Jigano agreed wryly. "It was meant as a figure of speech, though. Most of our battles were done quietly and we didn't dare spread the word of what we were about. Not that it did much good," he added after a moment's thoughtful pause and a shrug that was deceptively casual. "Word got out eventually and... well. Despots don't much care for rebels or how much collateral damage happens in hunting them down." They might have been successful in the long run, but it had cost Jigano his family along the way, and no few other deaths in their hometown when the League sent a myrmidon to deliver a 'warning' that destroyed several buildings in the town, including one where Jigano's parents were sheltering.
No, he'd claimed few of their victories for songs and tales. There was too much danger in it, and afterwards he didn't wish to be reminded of the cost, and had stayed silent over his part in bringing down the mad iron god. There was truth, though, in that however necessary the support troops were to any battle, there was little thanks or recognition of them after, even among themselves. Those who plunged to the front of the battle, taking lives, splashed in blood, risking the most but also around whose arms and weapons hinged the success or defeat of the group as a whole... they never questioned their importance, never had their place called into question. The support troops never talked about leaving the melee warriors behind as useless baggage, never forgot what they did for the group.
A little lingering resentment, even after all these years? He shook it off, disgusted at himself as he turned his attention to Deimos's attack on the remaining targets, mowing them down like a grim harvest. Determined to find the light again he suggested mud, but then another idea came to him. "Or we could fill it with flowers and launch them during Fiat Lux to scatter over the crowd," he suggested slyly. "A demonstration from the militia stall, perhaps?"
No, he'd claimed few of their victories for songs and tales. There was too much danger in it, and afterwards he didn't wish to be reminded of the cost, and had stayed silent over his part in bringing down the mad iron god. There was truth, though, in that however necessary the support troops were to any battle, there was little thanks or recognition of them after, even among themselves. Those who plunged to the front of the battle, taking lives, splashed in blood, risking the most but also around whose arms and weapons hinged the success or defeat of the group as a whole... they never questioned their importance, never had their place called into question. The support troops never talked about leaving the melee warriors behind as useless baggage, never forgot what they did for the group.
A little lingering resentment, even after all these years? He shook it off, disgusted at himself as he turned his attention to Deimos's attack on the remaining targets, mowing them down like a grim harvest. Determined to find the light again he suggested mud, but then another idea came to him. "Or we could fill it with flowers and launch them during Fiat Lux to scatter over the crowd," he suggested slyly. "A demonstration from the militia stall, perhaps?"
